The dome of the U.S. Capitol shimmered under a thin coat of snow, glowing a bluish-gray in the cold moonlight—like a film reel waiting to be developed.
Three miles away, in the Mayflower Hotel on Connecticut Avenue, the "Lobbyist Suite" was sealed tight from the December wind. The velvet curtains blocked the city lights, and a fire in the marble fireplace threw long shadows across a Persian rug.
Nicholas Schenck set the phone receiver down, the metal still warm in his hand. He poured himself a measure of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, its amber hue flickering in the firelight.
"MGM's call options just surged two hundred percent," he told Arthur Watson, his chief legal counsel, with a thin, knowing smile. "And Kodak has formally notified Pioneer Optics that it's halting all specialty emulsion supplies—including those for the Rochester Optical Tower project. They're calling it 'adjustments to production capacity.'"
He swirled his drink lazily. "Old Eastman finally learned his lesson. After the 1901 emulsion scandal gutted forty percent of Kodak's stock, he's not about to pick the wrong side again."
Arthur adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. Behind them, his gaze was sharp, calculating—an Ivy League kind of calm. "Nicholas, Kodak's move buys us time, but this is still only a tactical win. We should expect McConnell to push back. He's not one to let a fixed game slide."
He tapped a finger on the thick Sherman Antitrust briefing spread open before him. "If Pioneer files for an injunction claiming Kodak's abusing market dominance, we'll be hit with another federal hearing within days. We have to stay ahead of every move."
Nicholas walked toward the desk, his finger pausing on a neatly typed agenda for the upcoming Breakfast Meeting on Photographic Safety Standards—a euphemism for regulatory chokehold.
"That," Nicholas said quietly, "is the leash we'll use. Once Clemens signs off on those 'standards,' they'll become federal code. Kodak's move will look visionary, not predatory. And if Pioneer pushes back, they won't be fighting MGM anymore—they'll be fighting Washington."
He smiled faintly, but his eyes stayed guarded. He knew this game wasn't over. The moment word spread about Kodak's embargo, the war had only begun.
December 24, 1927 – Christmas Eve
Snow fell softly over Washington, D.C., muting the hum of late-night traffic. In a narrow alley off Constitution Avenue, an old Cadillac Fleetwood idled, its exhaust weaving into the falling flakes. Inside, the heater hummed, but tension hung thicker than the cigarette smoke.
"...Schenck's train from New York pulled in last night," rasped Henry James Hill, his voice rough from too many cigarettes and too few hours of sleep. "His breakfast meeting with Clemens—Deputy Director of the Patent Office—is at ten, day after tomorrow."
The old man coughed violently, covering his mouth with a scarf. Shane Cassidy, sitting beside him, placed a steady hand on his back.
"You should see a doctor, Henry," Shane said quietly, his Irish lilt softened by years of American slang.
"After this job." Henry waved him off, pulling a folded brown envelope from his briefcase. "Washington's Christmas List."
Shane opened it. Inside was a typed sheet with names neatly arranged, each one circled in red pen. Next to each name—numbers, notes, and secrets:
• Edgar Clemens – Gambling debt: $47,850 (Spades Club, VIP Room. Prefers Montecristo cigars.)
• Senator Robert Fairbanks – Campaign shortfall: $108,600 (Opponent funded by Standard Oil. Down 12 points in polls.)
• Judge William Howard – Mistress's apartment rent: $12,000 a year (Paid via Citibank safety deposit, Box 1274. Close friend of Clemens.)
Shane's eyes lingered on the asterisk beside Clemens's name. The note read: "Clemens's Christmas party is always missing one thing—1921 Macallan."
"A tough find during Prohibition," Shane said wryly, glancing through the frosted window at the glowing Masonic Temple lights.
Henry chuckled, reaching into his coat for a brass key. "Not if you know where to look. The cellar at 1420 Pennsylvania Avenue, behind the third shelf. Six bottles. Enough to make Clemens see angels."
"Whiskey's not enough," Shane said, opening his briefcase. Inside were a series of photos—grainy, black-and-white, but damning.
One showed Clemens hunched over a poker table at the Spades Club, surrounded by smoke and stacks of chips. Another captured Judge Howard walking arm-in-arm with a young ballerina into an apartment building on M Street.
"Mikhail delivered these two nights ago," Shane murmured.
Henry smirked. "William Howard spends ten grand a year on a mistress. A man that careless always hides more under his robe."
The wind howled outside, snow pelting the car roof in rhythmic bursts.
"Tomorrow," Shane said, folding the list and sliding it into the inside pocket of his coat, "I'll bring Clemens his 'holiday gift'—a bottle of Macallan, and a few reminders that his luck at cards isn't the only thing in debt."
He lowered the window. A gust of icy air rushed in. From across the alley, a dark Cadillac DeVille idled, its headlights dimmed.
Moments later, Mikhail appeared—tall, broad-shouldered, snow collecting on his wool overcoat. He leaned against the car door, exhaling a cloud of frost. "Sir?"
"Tomorrow morning," Shane said. "Mayflower Hotel. I want every name that shakes Schenck's hand—from the bellboy to the lobby clerk. Use the Krupp listening rig. Get me tapes by noon."
"Understood," Mikhail said, his Polish accent thick but firm. He turned, his leather soles crunching against the snow, disappearing into the night.
The window rolled up again, sealing the warmth back inside.
Henry spoke softly, almost to himself. "Morgan's people were here yesterday. A young guy, slick talker, promised to 'fast-track' approvals. Wanted fifty-one percent of your European stake."
He passed Shane a business card—Citibank embossed in gold, a faint trace of Chanel No. 5 perfume, and a red lipstick note at the bottom:
Litigation can vanish overnight. 12% commission.
Shane brushed his thumb over the glossy paper, feeling the weight of it. "Catterson has the defense files ready. The rest is our move."
The Cadillac rolled forward, its anti-skid chains grinding over the icy pavement.
"Clemens is the first," Henry rasped, staring out the windshield. "Fairbanks's campaign, Howard's mistress… they'll all fall in line."
Shane gazed at the Capitol dome in the distance, now dim behind falling snow. "Washington's just a chessboard," he said quietly. "And we've just made our first move."
Henry managed a weak smile, raising his cigar in salute. "Merry Christmas, kid."
Shane returned the gesture. "Merry Christmas, Henry."
Outside, the city lay silent beneath its blanket of snow. But inside the Cadillac, the war had already begun.